Of Needles and Necromancy
by desdarlin
Summary: AU: After the passing of Misty Day, Cordelia, unable to repress her crushing guilt, leaves the coven and seeks refuge at Hotel Cortez, spiraling into a world of corruption and espousing an eccentric new persona. But what happens when Misty returns from Hell to find her beloved missing? (AKA Cordelia is Sally and Misty searches for her.) M for violence, drug use, and eventual smut
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, everyone! This story is based on a tumblr prompt in which Cordelia leaves the coven after Misty's death and eventually takes on the persona of Hypodermic Sally, unaware that Misty has returned from Hell and is continually searching for her. This will be a multi-chapter fic! Please heed the warnings noted in the summary. Thank you!** (✿◠‿◠)

* * *

Once upon a time, Cordelia had a job, and a home. She had hope, and a future. She had someone.

You'd think that to conjure up such illuminating memories in her place so void of light would be an effortless task, and you would be right. Which is precisely why she sits with a needle poised above her favorite (and expediently, the most convenient) vein, a silk sash for a makeshift tourniquet wrapped tightly around her upper arm.

Why waste such precious reminiscence, especially in her broken state? Why barricade the thoughts with a wall of hazy euphoria and fraught languor when tangible happiness brushes past her fingertips so nonchalantly? Because she ruined it. She took her opportunity and inadvertently crushed it beneath knuckles white with anxiety and cowardice.

But she can't afford to think about that now, as a warm wave of numbness washes over her. She can't move. She can't breathe. She loves it.

Just like she loved her.

Suddenly, the tides grow hostile, and she is pulled from her blissful spot on the surface to the depths of the ocean. All she can see is _her:_ her soulful gazes and bright eyes and vivacious grins and flushed cheeks and ivory skin and wild blond hair—

 _"Follow my voice."_

 _"We are all here waiting for you."_

 _"Sequere lucem, venite ad me."_

She opens her eyes with a start and, in a flurry of anger and despair, picks up the nearest possible object and beams it at the opposing wall, tilting her head back and letting out a cry that quickly shifts into a sob. Her shoulders shake as she weeps, tears rolling down her made-up face and landing on the floor with soft plops.

She lost everything when she lost her. Her very being had crumbled to dust alongside her love.

She rests her head on her knees and does not stop crying.

* * *

At four months, the police stop looking. At seven, Zoe and Queenie follow suit. It has been two years, nine months, three weeks, and four days, but Misty's search continues to soldier on.

It is on the anniversary of her disappearance, however, that Misty's resolve begins to crack. She thinks that perhaps she was foolish not to heed the others' warnings that she was wasting her time on a dead woman. That Cordelia Goode really had run off and killed herself out of guilt and shame.

It is all her fault. She flinches at the pain of regret that stabs her chest; she should have contacted the Coven the moment that she awoke, alive, in her swamp shack. But she hadn't. She had waited out of the fear that her surroundings were some kind of cruel trick, a game that Papa Legba was playing with her. And when the realization that she had indeed been granted back her life finally dawned on her, it was two weeks too late.

She crumples to the floor and hugs her knees to her chest, soaking her floral skirt with tears that refuse to cease falling for the entire night.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I must confess that I have not yet finished all of Hotel (I know, how lame of me). In addition, this story is more of an AU, so some minor plot details may be askew. That being said, please excuse any faults in my story that do not parallel the Hotel universe. Thank you! (^‿^✿)**

* * *

She travels through countless states and cities, but is inevitably drawn to Los Angeles for its reputation of being covertly saturated in sorcery and occultism. She stays in various lodging residencies, some infested with rats and cockroaches, others teeming with sleazy men and overall corruption. None can compare, however, to the lavish disparity that is Hotel Cortez, though it is excruciatingly clear that it holds more debauchery than all of her previous shelters combined.

She easily succumbs to its depraved culture and partakes in recreations so previously unheard of in her delicate little mind. Who would have guessed that Miss Robichaux's former headmistress would inexorably fall victim to the beautifully fraudulent world of rough sex and skag-slamming?

But she is not Cordelia anymore, she is _Sally_ , and she knows not of the meek woman that she once was.

Sally smears her dark maroon lipstick across her mouth carelessly, grinning maniacally at her own sloppiness.

 _Cordelia would never wear such a gaudy color._

Her smile contorts into a grimace, and she slams her palms against the mirror in fury.

* * *

Misty's tip-off as to Cordelia's whereabouts is sparked by an unassuming news story. Of course, she had previously scoured articles, reports, and other miscellaneous resources during her search, but this particular channel catches her eye for some indeterminate reason.

A makeup-caked woman with bleached teeth and analogous hair to match rambles on cheerily about the latest news involving the string of murders, also referred to as the "Ten Commandment Killings." This is all anyone has been talking about as of late; Misty pays the broadcast no attention at first, engrossed in scraping the uneaten scrambled eggs around her plate, and even contemplates muting the white noise until the anchorwoman's counterpart chimes in.

"Police believe that the city's historic Hotel Cortez may be linked to the killer," he says. "As it has been the site of all four murders."

Misty is no stranger to death. If anything, she is its arch nemesis, breathing life into its stolen casualties and smirking in the face of its short-lived opulence. Still, it is a creature that acts out of obligation, and she has learned over time that not all those who are deceased warrant second chances at existence. She frowns minutely at the screen.

"Damn, Los Angeles is really getting its ass kicked," Zoe comments casually, causing Misty to nearly fall out of her chair.

"Don't scare me like that!" she teases half-heartedly before returning to her seat.

"Sorry," Zoe smiles sheepishly and shakes her head before turning her attention to the screen. "But seriously, first the whole Murder House shit, now this?"

"Murder House?"

Zoe stares at her abruptly. "You never heard about that?" she asks incredulously. Misty shakes her head. "Dude, it was all over the news for, like, months." Misty shrugs, signaling with her ring and bracelet-bejeweled hands to continue.

Zoe grins. "So, this family moved into the house back in, like, 2011, and they all died in the same year. So the police came in and investigated shit, and it turns out that all these other people lived there and died the same way."

Misty's eyes widen in shock, and Zoe nods exuberantly.

"But that's not even the worst part: the first guy that lived there ran a secret abortion clinic in his basement, and his wife ended up shooting him and killing herself. Then it got turned into a sorority house and these two girls got frickin' stabbed by some maniac they let inside. And _then_ …"

Misty tunes her out as she absorbs the wealth of new information. Something about it does not sit right in her bones. There is too much turpitude occurring in such a small amount of time, in such a condensed area.

"…so the dad ended up killing himself and their baby is _still_ missing." Zoe finishes triumphantly. "Pretty fucked up, right?"

Misty nods, dazed. She shakes herself out of her stupefaction.

"Zo," she says finally, meeting the younger witch's eyes. "Somethin' ain't right here. I mean, it's all gotta be linked somehow." She pauses, chewing her lip raptly, before continuing slowly. "Out of all the witches we're teachin' here, how many are from LA?"

Zoe's expression is one of dubiety that slowly transmutes into solace and pity. She shakes her head. "I know where this is going."

Misty's fork clatters against her plate irately. "I didn't say—"

"Misty, you've got to give this up!" Zoe cries in defeat. "It's not fair to you, it's not fair to the coven, it's—"

"It's not fair to _her_!" Misty rebuttals, standing so swiftly that her chair nearly topples. She promptly turns on her heel, ignoring Zoe's hollers and apologies, and continues without deviation to her room, where she slams the door, wipes at her damp eyes, and pulls a sleek white laptop from under her bed.

The cursor blinks inside of the search engine monotonously.

She types out slowly "los angeles supernatural" and hits enter after an eternity of contemplation. It's as good a shot as any of the ones that she has taken thus far.


End file.
